Chasing Stillness

Every morning looks the same, yet they all feel quite different. In an ideal world, the sun would spill through my windows, kiss my face, and pull me gently into the day with a surge of energy. But that is not my reality. I try to go to sleep early, but a surge of energy often runs through my body at night, determining how late I’ll allow myself to sleep. Most nights, I give myself a full eight hours in bed, yet it never quite feels like enough.

Around 6:55 am, my Hatch alarm begins chirping, signaling the start of another day. I reach out, slam the top with a force that seems to contain all my resistance, and let sleep reclaim me. Fifteen minutes later, Ludovico Einaudi begins playing from my living room—a louder, more insistent call. I scurry down the spiral steps, my bare feet cautious on the cold steel, aware of how easy it would be to slip. At the bottom, I hesitate. My phone sits there, glowing, waiting. A thought creeps in—you could go back upstairs, crawl back under the covers. My mind pushes back. No, you have to get up. You’ll feel better.

I open the blinds above my altar. The sun, still uncertain in its rise, peeks through the Brooklyn skyline. I reach for a blanket, drape it over my lap, and prop myself up on a meditation cushion. Before lighting the candles, I pause. My fingers fidget with the wax remnants from yesterday’s practice, peeling them away like layers of my own hesitations.

I consider checking my phone, scrolling through Instagram, delaying the inevitable moment of stillness. But I know better. It’s just a way to postpone the thing I know I must do. Just light the candles. I flick the lighter, watch the flame catch, and bring it to the three pillar candles. One always burns faster than the others. I’ve never figured out why.

I set the lighter down, bring my hands to my chest, and whisper the Sanskrit prayer:

"Asato Ma Sadgamaya, Tamaso Ma Jyotir Gamaya, Mrityorma Amritam Gamaya, Om Shanti Shanti Shanti."

As my hands rest in my lap, I close my eyes and begin chanting my Vedic mantra. The usual distractions surface. Does this practice even work? My mind wanders to breakfast, to coffee, to the shape of my day. No, Lauren. Come back to the mantra.

But then, a memory slips in—my revelation from yesterday. A sharp inhale. And then, the heartbreak rushes in, sudden and undeniable. I had held it in for over a day, convinced I could contain it. But here, in the stillness, my practice has created space for it to rise.

And so it does. The tears come quietly at first, then all at once, streaming down my face.